


second to the right

by bwoozi



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Peter Pan Fusion, First Kiss, M/M, Peter Pan References, cryptic dream shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 02:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8515159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwoozi/pseuds/bwoozi
Summary: "There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred."Mingyu is lost. Minghao doesn’t know this, but he is. He was lost from the day he was born only to become lost once again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is a lot different from anything i've ever written, so please excuse if it sounds strange or rough or if it doesn't make a lot of sense! peter and wendy is one of my favorite books and i used a lot of quotes from it, it was a lot of fun!
> 
> i'll probably come back and edit this a lot. i didn't read through it thoroughly before posting!

                He can’t recall the first time Mingyu tapped on his bedroom window. It seemed to be something that happened within a dream, the make-believe of a child, an imaginary friend visiting him in a dream. The only problem with that was that Minghao hadn’t imagined anyone like him beforehand; even the first few times, when they were no older than 10, Mingyu was so unrealistically charming that it seemed impossible for him to exist at all, fiction or no. This is the reason Minghao never opened the window for him, just held a pillow over his ear to drown out the incessant knocking on the window frame. He was certain he was dreaming back then. He was dreaming, that was his mantra, and it quelled any fear that bubbled up within him when he was too heavy with sleep to make sure the face at the window was just Mingyu, no one else.

                Minghao is fourteen the night that he lets Mingyu inside for the first time. Unlike Minghao, Mingyu can be whatever age he wants, or whatever age Minghao wants, while in reality he’s only as old as Minghao is, however old that may be. Mingyu forgets almost every time and though Minghao remembers, he still asks, to which Mingyu responds with a change of subject or a shrug. This time, the first time, Minghao doesn’t know in the first place. They’d yet to speak.

                He’s halfway to the windowsill before he realizes opening it may not be a good idea. Mingyu doesn’t visit every night and it’s been especially uncommon lately, possibly because he’s growing out of it (that’s what he thinks, at least, with the assumption that Mingyu ages as he does). He pulls the blinds up to see a tall boy squatting on the frieze, fingers curled over the sill on the other side. Silently, he cracks the window with caution, until it’s lifted upwards without a word between the two, ending with Mingyu standing inches away from Minghao’s face with his feet planted firmly in the carpet. Minghao shudders. Perhaps he’s dreaming.

                “Hi,” he says innocently enough, his face red and nose runny from the weather outside, “I’m Mingyu. What’s your name?”

                Minghao pauses for a long time. It could be a dream if he couldn’t feel Mingyu’s breath ghost over his face, warm and steady.

                “I’m Minghao.” It’s a plain answer, hardly a whisper, but Mingyu smiles. He walks around Minghao then, rummaging around his room and humming. He’s too tired to be too taken aback, but still cocks an eyebrow at Mingyu’s antics.

                Minghao is brimming with curiosity (and audacity, it seems) when he asks, “What are you doing?”

                “I’m looking for something.”

                “Looking for what?”

                “I think I left something in here…?” His head tilts like a puppy’s.

                Minghao giggles heartily, a tinge of nervousness in his tone. “Like what?”

                “I don’t know, that’s why I’m looking.” Mingyu is opening drawers now, pulling back furniture.

                Minghao just watches him bumble around the room, hands at his sides. He’s not sure what to say, so he just asks more questions.

                “Where do you live?”

                Mingyu looks at the ceiling with furrowed brows. He mumbles something about stars that Minghao doesn’t hear, so when he asks again, Mingyu just says “Up?”

                “North of here?” Mingyu shrugs, now pulling the tousled covers from Minghao’s bed. “Hey, how old are you?”

                Mingyu pauses again but this time focuses on his fingers, which look as though they’re counting, but it’s on both hands simultaneously—he gives up after confusing himself. “I don’t know. I’m young, like you.”

                “I’m fourteen.”

                “Fourteen what?” Mingyu asks, as if it’s a completely normal question, and Minghao takes it with several grains of salt, laughing at the question like it’s a joke.

                “Years?”

                “Years? I’ve been around for much longer than that, but I don’t think I’m that old…” He says with disdain, and Minghao isn’t sure what he means but he’s starting to understand.

                Mingyu is sitting on his bed now, after a frustrated sigh. Minghao timidly walks over and sits beside him, thighs nearly touching, and Minghao notices that his face is lit up beautifully by the moon outside. His cheekbones are high and his eyes sparkle under his eyelashes—the light hits his cupid’s bow in a way that makes Minghao stare at it.

                “Mingyu. Why do you come here? Are you—”

                “What’s a kiss?” He blurts.

                Minghao snorts. He knows now that Mingyu is serious, but it’s still an absurd question. “Why do you ask?” He still can’t tear his eyes off Mingyu’s lips. They’re dry.

                “I don’t know. I thought you might have one.” This time when Minghao chuckles, Mingyu blushes and turns away. “Stop laughing at me…” He pleads finally, pouting.

                “Did you come here to look for a kiss?” Mingyu nods. “I hate to break it to you, but a kiss isn’t an object. It’s like, when you put your lips on someone else’s.”

                “Why would you want to do that?”

                “It… feels nice. Not speaking from experience, but…” The momentary silence is filled with Mingyu planting a gentle peck on Minghao’s lips, pulling away with a blank stare. Their thighs are side by side now, and one of Mingyu’s hands rests in between them.

                “I think I get it,” Mingyu admits sheepishly, “your lips are soft.”

                “And yours are terribly chapped.” Minghao jokes before opening his eyes to the soft light of morning, his open window letting in a cold draft that chills him to the bone.

* * *

 

                All of this has happened before, and it will all happen again. Minghao isn’t the first to meet a boy halfway into his dreams every night, and he won’t be the last, despite Mingyu’s lack of tradition. Minghao has concluded that Mingyu isn’t magical, or at least not as magical as he could be, and that is correct—Mingyu tends to do things out of order or not at all, and he certainly can’t figure out how to fly. He can do it clumsily on the rare occasion, but otherwise, he’s stuck on the ground. He wonders if he has any happy thoughts at all until he stumbles upon Minghao, and though his snarky tone and smug smile and bright eyes make him feel like his chest is boiling, he still can’t fly voluntarily.

                Minghao discovers this the second time he lets Mingyu inside. He’s worked up from the moment he stumbles through the window, close to sniffling, and Minghao sits him on the bed again to stroke the back of his head, overgrown hair feeling a bit tangled in his fingers.

                “What’s wrong, Mingyu?” He asks. Mingyu huffs.

                “Nothing! I _never_ cry.”

                “Spit it out,” Minghao urges, “I won’t judge you.”

                The air suddenly grows serious as Mingyu is bursting at the seams, frustrated and embarrassed and _emotional,_ not letting tears fall, but so affected that Minghao feels the tension under the pads of his fingers.

                “I should be able to fly,” He cries, “Minghao…” He’s angry, so angry, and Minghao can’t decide if it’s at himself or at everyone but.

                Minghao doesn’t understand. He supposes Mingyu should be able to—it seems appropriate. He doesn’t want to pry, but he feels like he has to this time.

                He speaks to him gingerly, like a mother would. “Why can’t you?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “Can I help?” Minghao is standing now, grabbing Mingyu’s wrists to pull him onto his feet. “Tell me how to fly, and I’ll help you.”

                Mingyu takes a deep breath. “You think of happy things, and your body starts to feel light…” His eyes are scrunched shut, focusing, and Minghao looks at his crinkled eyelids patiently. His hands feel familiar all tangled up in his own, rubbing the knuckle of his thumb.

                “What makes you happy?”

                “You.” He says aloud. Minghao swallows. “How calm you look when you sleep. How much you trust me. How well I know you. How pretty your face is.” Minghao wants to comment that Mingyu just met him for the first time a few nights ago, but he recognizes that Mingyu’s existence must be a lot more complicated than meeting and knowing and passing time in days. He does trust him, as stupid as he is. He feels like he’s known him for his whole life, and he very well might have.

                “What else?”

                Mingyu opens his eyes. “Kisses. Flying. Flying…” He looks worried, suddenly, so he moves his hands up to Minghao’s forearms. “Can you hold me?”

                Minghao wraps his arms loosely around Mingyu’s waist, and it’s solid and warm; he wants to be surprised that his body is human. He isn’t, though, the give of his flesh is as comforting and intimidating as the rest of him.

                Mingyu’s feet lift off the ground. Minghao keeps him from floating away and smiles at him like he would a child taking its first steps. It’s the last thing he remembers before waking up to an open window once again.

* * *

 

                The first time Mingyu takes Minghao outside his room, Minghao is fifteen and Mingyu is perpetually immature, as expected. His face grows more handsome but his eyes retain the glint of a child—as Minghao grows fine hairs on his chin and jaw, Mingyu grows none. Minghao’s awkward and scrawny body becomes more proportionate every day while Mingyu only sees the broadening of his shoulders from lifting himself up to places he probably shouldn’t be.

                The streets that they peruse are silent and void of people. Even at three or four in the morning, the stillness isn’t normal—Mingyu isn’t either, but it doesn’t mean Minghao isn’t uneasy. It’s unsettling but Mingyu tends to hold onto his sleeve loosely while the walk, holds his hands when they sit on the rooftops of the shorter buildings around, wraps an arm around his shoulders when they’re on the roof of Minghao’s apartment building. That roof in particular is their favorite, though usually locked when Minghao is in his right mind—it’s one of many things that remind Minghao he could be dreaming. He could be dreaming, but he could also be awake, or something between.

                Mingyu visits every once and a while. Sometimes a few times a week, sometimes once a month, but every time he comes Minghao feels like he just saw him yesterday. He tells Mingyu stories—stories about school, stories about books he reads and shows he watches, stories about himself. Mingyu looks at him with these eyes that sparkle like he’s got glitter stuck in his irises. He wonders if his eyes itch because of it—they’re always so wide, though, so full of interest, that it seems unlikely.

                One night, while they’re lying on the roof and looking at the stars, Minghao tells a story about how he danced in a competition—Mingyu looks at him in awe, the corners of his mouth curling up. Minghao swears he can feel when an idea sparks within him.

                “You should teach me!” He suggests, sitting up and crossing his legs. “Dancing with you would be so fun, can we dance?”

                Minghao’s on his elbows now, propped up on one briefly to scratch the nape of his neck. “The kind of dancing I do is… just for one person, really.”

                “Do you know any dances for two people?”

                Minghao’s face flushes. “I do.”

                “Can you show me how?”

                “Mingyu, there’s no music.” He deadpans. Mingyu glares at him.

                “Let’s do it anyway.”

                Minghao huffs when Mingyu pulls him to his feet. He’s reluctant, but he holds one of his hands and tugs the other to his waist, stilling when they’re in position.

                “This doesn’t seem much like dancing.” Mingyu comments slyly.

                “Shut up.” Minghao’s flustered whisper is met with a firm pinch to his side.

                The second Minghao moves one of his feet, eyes drawing up from Mingyu’s cupid’s bow to his eyes, those eyes that trouble him so much, that make him soft around the edges—Mingyu’s body is light again, lids falling and teeth baring in a wide smile.

                Minghao doesn’t fly that time. He’s too busy teasing Mingyu—kicking his feet lightly, squeezing his hand, calling him clumsy—to think about it. Mingyu’s laughter sounds like a star breaking into a thousand pieces.

* * *

 

                Stars are beautiful, but they may not take an active part in anything, they must just look on forever. Mingyu knows this, but he still laments to Minghao about how much he misses them, whatever that means. Minghao doesn’t quite understand Mingyu, he never will, but he understands that he and Mingyu will never be able to last as long as a star may. As Minghao grows older, Mingyu walks slower beside him and doesn’t look at him quite the way he did before. He’s not bored of Minghao in the slightest—in fact, he insists that their “adventures” are the reason he lives, but he seems to be unhappy that he ages alongside him. He seems tentative. He doesn’t tap at the window as often.

                “Do you have any friends, Mingyu?” He asks, sniveling. The autumn breeze bites at the tip of his nose and ears.

                “I have you.” He declares proudly. His smile is gentle and fleeting.

                “Besides me.”

                A pause. “No, I don’t.”

                “Did you ever?”

                Mingyu looks down at his feet and thinks for a long, long time. “I don’t know. I forget them after I kill them.”

                “Mingyu.” His heart pounds at his chest. Rather than a star shattering, it feels like exploding, a rough and overwhelming thrum at his ribcage at the thought of Mingyu putting his hands on anyone with harmful intentions. “You killed people?”

                “I told you, I can’t remember. I forget them after I kill them.” His voice lacks so much of his usual youthful tone—Minghao is scared of him for the first time since he was a child.

                Mingyu is lost. Minghao doesn’t know this, but he is. He was lost from the day he was born only to become lost once again.

* * *

 

                He’s sitting beside Minghao with his legs to his chest. It’s summer now, the weather is pleasant enough for them to wear short sleeves on the roof.

                “How old are you now, Minghao?”

                “Seventeen.” Mingyu seethes at that.

                “You’re going to be a grown-up soon.”

                Minghao smiles at his wording, picks at his bangs. “I am.”

                “You know forever is an awfully long time, right? It’s until you die. It’s until you forget me.”

                He nudges him. “I know, I know.” There’s a head on his shoulder now, heavy and warm, untidy hair brushing his exposed neck. “What are you getting at?”

                “I can’t do forever, Minghao,” Mingyu sighs, “I want to, but I can’t.”

                Minghao’s voice is shaky now, faltering when he speaks. “Mingyu, I think I love you, which is stupid because you’re stupid and I don’t think you’re real, sometimes.” He’s wringing his hands. “You—you’ll remember me if you go, right?” He corrects his phrasing immediately, “When you go?”

                Mingyu sits in front of Minghao now, almost uncomfortably close. “Will you remember me?”

                “Of course I will. I love you.” It’s more confident this time, less teasing. Mingyu looks panicked. He inhales sharply with purpose.

                “You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming?” Mingyu holds both his hands, pressing them into his chest. His voice cracks the second he looks Minghao in the eye. “That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.”

                “Mingyu, are you real?” Minghao pleads, “Are you alive?

                You’ll remember me, right, Mingyu?

                Mingyu?”

 

                Minghao’s in his bed, awake before the sunrise. His entire body aches, like he’s aged, like he’s lost someone.

* * *

 

                Mingyu doesn’t visit anymore. Minghao sleeps longer, but not well, though Mingyu typically came to him in the moments before he fell asleep. He misses him so, so much.

                One night, he’s with Mingyu again. He can’t recall how he ended up flying, among stars, Mingyu visible in the distance.

                “Mingyu?” He calls, quietly.

                His head turns sharply. It's not as distinct as Minghao remembers. “Who are you?”

                “I’m Minghao, remember? I’m Minghao.” Minghao is desperate and feels like crying. Mingyu’s presence doesn’t feel the same and his body won’t move any closer to him.

                Mingyu’s eyes are dull and unmoving. “I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t remember.”

                “Mingyu. Mingyu.” He pleads, trying to follow Mingyu as he floats away from him. He forgets them after he kills them. “Did you kill me?”

                Mingyu says nothing.

                “Did you kill me?” Minghao is screaming. It’s getting darker now, as if that was possible, his eyelashes are wet and full of tears.

                “Mingyu!”

* * *

 

                He has more dreams about Mingyu. He still isn’t in them in the same way he was originally; it’s not nearly as vivid, doesn’t feel as if he’s halfway between one reality and another. He can’t feel his company anymore, though he wishes he could—he knows that wherever Mingyu is, he wishes for it too.

                He’s acquired a taste for coffee. He knows Mingyu wouldn’t approve of it—it’s for adults, after all. Every time he takes a sip he thinks of him, thinks of how light his body felt when he flew, thinks of the pixie dust behind his eyes, thinks of his lips. The mug is as warm and dry as they used to be. He remembers to not forget, and if drinking coffee to spite him helps, then he’ll drink it every morning. He’s balancing a thermos in his hands, fiddling with his keys at his apartment door before he goes out. It’s noon, Minghao is as far out of a dream as possible.

                Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it. Minghao locks eyes with a tall, charming boy who just happened to walk out of the apartment adjacent to his own.

                Mingyu says nothing but his gaze promises that he’s real, he’s alive, and he is forever.


End file.
